


walmart tyler seguin

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, 5+1 Things, Crack, Gloria - Freeform, M/M, St. Louis Blues, Stanley Cup, as God intended, bros, joel edmundsons crop tops are basically a character, loosest definition of a plot, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19275823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 5 times Joel Edmundson made interesting fashion choices for the good of the people and 1 time he won the Stanley Fucking Cup.





	walmart tyler seguin

**Author's Note:**

> don’t read it 
> 
> i beg of you
> 
>  
> 
> s/o to the stars fan on tumblr trying to belittle st. louis’s favorite crop top. thx for the title bb. 
> 
> just got my wisdom teeth out so also a big s/o to vicodin
> 
> the fact that i would die for pat maroon does not matter to the plot of this story but somebody’s chubby but effective and it sure as shit ain’t patrik laine

 

1)

 

“Eddie,” Dunner says. He’s slouched back into the booth, practically on top of Sammy. “Eds.”

 

Joel stares at him over his beer. He just got back from the dance floor and his skin is sticking weirdly to the booth. He hopes it’s from sweat.

 

“Edsssssss,” Sammy sings. “Vinny’s talking to you.”

 

“What, Dunner?” Joel says. Dunner blinks at him.

 

“Where’s your shirt?” he asks finally. Joel looks down at himself. 

 

“Huh,” he says. “Must’ve lost it.” Sammy and Dunner collapse even further into each other, giggling like teenage girls.

 

It’s November, so that’s not ideal. St. Louis isn’t Canada cold, but that doesn’t mean it’s ideal tits out weather. Joel’s been caught outside in sleet often enough to know.

 

“Anybody have an extra shirt?” Joel asks the group. The responsible adults who actually might all left the bar hours ago. Joel is left with the young and single guys, all of whom share a single brain cell during situations not involving hockey. Joel is self-aware and drunk enough to include himself in this.

 

That brain cell does a strangely acrobatic maneuver to come to Joel’s rescue. Colton shimmies out of the t-shirt under his hoodie and tosses it to Joel, grinning. Fabbs claps for him.

 

Colton’s shirt is like three sizes too big, but it’s warm and keeps Joel’s skin from sticking to the booth. 

 

“You’re a G, Parayko,” Joel says. Colton snorts.

 

2)

 

Joel is wandering around his apartment aimlessly when the buzzer goes off. He scrambles over to let whoever in without bothering to check who. It’s probably just Fabbs, but it could be Dunner and Sammy or even Colton. Joel literally doesn’t care, he’s so bored. 

 

A second later, he opens the door to Jordan Binnington. Jordan stares at him placidly, bag over his shoulder. Joel checks his phone, but nope, not September, December. Blinks at Jordan again.

 

“ _ Dude _ ,” Joel says. His voice probably goes higher than he means it to. “The pros!”

 

Joel drags Jordan through the doorway and into a hug. “Hello, Eddie,” Jordan says, muffled into Joel’s shoulder. He pulls back to stare at Joel. “Those shorts are ridiculous.”

 

“They’re freeing,” Joel says. He kicks out a leg to like, demonstrate, and nearly takes out Jordan’s kneecap. Jordan dodges neatly.

 

“They’re tiny,” Jordan says judgily, his eyes skating from Joel’s feet (bare, toenails painted by a drunk Fabbs), to his thighs, lingering for a second where Joel’s running shorts hit, admittedly, very high.

 

“Oh yeah?” Joel asks, leering. Jordan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t look uninterested. Which like, duh. He wasn’t the most reliable hookup of Joel’s early twenties for nothing, and Joel has killer thighs anyway. Multiple sources have told him so, from the trainers to the girl he hooked up with last week on the road. “Big time NHL goalie, thinks he deserves a big time NHL piece of ass like this.”

 

“You’re a Walmart version of Tyler Seguin,” Jordan says, deadpan, but drops his bag and kisses him anyway. 

 

“I’m fucking Gucci, bro,” Joel gasps into Jordan’s mouth. Jordan bites him. 

 

“Hey, JB,” Joel says after. He feels sweaty and near-dead, collapsed and half-hanging off of the couch. Jordan is glistening a little but otherwise composed, doing his weird goalie stretching thing on the floor. Jordan is extraordinarily bendy. Joel gets distracted watching him. 

 

“Yeah?” Jordan murmurs, snapping Joel out of it.

 

“Congrats, man,” Joel says sincerely.

 

Jordan hums. “We’ll see,” he says flatly. Joel likes to think he can hear the thanks anyway.

 

3)

 

Joel’s making NHL money now, but he’s single and out of town a lot, so he doesn’t really see why he needs a super nice house. Thus, he lives in a sort of shitty walk-up that’s most redeeming features are its proximity to Enterprise, big windows, and the big wall in the living room that’s the perfect place for a flatscreen. His neighbors are a mix of grad students and old retired people, all of whom regard the C-list hockey player living in their building with a mix of disinterest and vague amusement. 

 

He’s getting looks now, but that’s more the fault of the three AM fire alarm than Joel. 

 

Edna from the third floor whistles, which is wrong on so many levels. Edna’s like eighty.

 

“Hey Kev,” Joel yells across the parking lot to the landlord. “Can I go inside and get a shirt?”

 

“Fire department’s gotta come clear us first,” Kevin says with a wide yawn. “You cold, kid?”

 

“Nah, I’m Canadian,” Joel lies. He cuts a glance to Edna, who is now joined by the couple down the hall. All of them are leering at him. “I’m feeling a little objectified, to be real with you.”

 

Kevin snorts out a laugh. “It’ll be a while. You got somewhere you can go?”

 

Joel has many somewheres he could go, but no phone and no car keys. He only has one local number saved in his brain, and only because it got beaten into him during his first year. Joel does a quick pros and cons in his head, but he has a game tomorrow. They really can’t afford to drop one, not now that they’re steamrolling into the playoffs conversation, and especially not because Joel caught frostbite in fucking St. Louis. He’s a hard-blooded Canadian boy. He’d never hear the end of it, especially from Colton, who went to live in Alaska voluntarily and now thinks he’s impervious to snow.

 

Joel sighs and then shivers as gust of wind blows by. “Yeah. You got a phone I can borrow?”

 

Vladdy answers the phone with a torrent of vicious sounding Russian that cuts off when he probably notices it’s not a Russian number. “Who in jail?” he says after a second. Joel panics, even though he didn’t do anything wrong.

 

“Dude, I’m so fucking sorry, the fire alarm went off in my building and I’m trapped outside and I don’t have my phone or my keys and I wasn’t wearing a shirt because it’s like three am, right, and it’s fucking cold and my neighbors are staring at me, like,  _ leering _ , and I don’t know anyone else’s number from memory because Petro said to call you for like rookie shit, which this isn’t—“

 

“Hello, Eds,” Vladdy says, and thank fuck, he just sounds way too bemused for this time in the morning. He’s the best. “I come get, don’t worry.”

 

Vladdy is literally two years older than him. Joel should not feel this calmed and like, parented.

 

“Thank you,” Joel sighs. He hears Vladdy murmur something to his wife and then a door close. 

 

“Is no problem,” Vladdy says. “I bring a hoodie for you. Ruin night of old ladies in Eddy’s apartment building.”

 

It takes a while for Vladdy to get there, by which time the fire department has started to inspect. He almost calls to tell Vladdy to turn around, but then he hears they’re checking every room which just, no. 

 

Joel is cold and miserable by the time he shows up, to the point where Vladdy’s heated seats almost hurt. He burrows into the hoodie Vladdy brought, 91 in the corner, and flips off the camera when he sees Vladdy take a picture. 

 

When Vladdy takes him back home before skate, Joel has to drink two cups of coffee before even daring to touch his phone. He scrolls up to the picture; there are flashing emergency lights in the background, and Joel looks like something that crawled out of a gutter. The group chat is its usual mix of chirping and concern:

 

**colton55**

_ eds its a tuesday _

 

**patty**

_ i know some cops lmk if i need to make a call lol _

 

**JayBo**

_ Is he ok? _

 

**vt91**

_ not dead yet but yana maybe kill him _

 

**schenner**

_ hahahahahahaha _

 

**schwartzy**

_ hahahahahahaha _

 

**cap**

_ How much was bail vlad  _

 

**binner**

_ eddy where are your clothes _

 

**RoR (!!!!!)**

_ hahahahahahaha _

 

Joel rolls his eyes and types back:

 

_ freak fire alarm cleared my building not the police i’ve never done anything wrong ever _

 

**vt91**

_ say to someone who does not remember rookie eds ))) _

 

**cap**

_ Oh god _

 

**barbs**

_ ))))))))))) pls tell _

 

**RoR (!!!!!)**

_ vladdy for the good of the team _

 

**schenner**

_ for morale! _

 

**steener**

_ first trip to toronto lol _

 

**me**

_ nope _

_ nope _

 

**binner**

_ eds and i met on the wolves  _

_ trust me he calmed down by the time he left _

 

Joel calls him before he can even read the responses to that shit.

 

“JB, I fucking swear,” Joel says. “I’ll take you down with me.”

 

“That time in Boystown—” Jordan starts calmly.

 

“Was at  _ least _ as embarrassing to you as it was to me,” Joel points out.

 

“Oh?” Jordan asks. “I wasn’t the one on the stripper pole.”

 

“I wasn’t the one getting the lap dance,” Joel retorts. 

 

“You were the one giving it,” Jordan says. “That’s worse.”

 

Joel hmphs. “I was great,” he pouts. 

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Fuck you, I’ll show you.”

 

Jordan laughs, one of his genuine, kind of dorky ones. Joel smiles.

 

“If we win the Cup,” he jokes. “You’re getting one hell of a show.” Jordan laughs again.

 

4)

 

Joel gets bored during the break between Winnipeg and Dallas and falls into a youtube hole. He swears he started with hockey shit, like Weird NHL and watching Patty chirping Laine’s life away. He ends up on some girl’s diy channel, watching her chop up t-shirts while talking in a low, soothing voice.

 

Next thing he knows, Joel’s sitting on the floor with a pair of scissors and three ruined shirts. They’re just old team shirts, some from Chicago and some from St. Louis, so it doesn’t really matter. But Joel is a professional athlete. He knows how scissors work.

 

He finds an old shirt from Juniors—way too short already but stretched out enough in the shoulders—and decides to just hack off the bottom. It doesn’t look terrible, so Joel puts it on and ends up wearing it around the house for the rest of the day. He likes it.

 

He likes it enough that he cuts apart two more shirts, wears them constantly when he’s alone, then packs them for their trip to Dallas to sleep in.

 

It’s fucking hot in Dallas, so Joel pulls off his hoodie during team breakfast. Petro stops talking about zone entries and stares at him, and like they have a radar for this stuff the rest of the d-corps follow. 

 

“What?” Joel asks through a mouthful of eggs.

 

“The fuck are you wearing?” Borts asks, laughing. 

 

“Oh,” Joel says. “I made it myself.”

 

“Good job,” Colton says genuinely, because he’s a Nice Guy. Joel grins widely at him. 

 

“It’s very Coachella,” Dunner says speculatively. 

 

“In Sweden guys just dress like that,” Gunny says. “It’s very Sweden.”

 

“Give us a spin,” Bo says, twirling his fingers. Petro rolls his eyes. “The money shot, Eds.” The rest of the team’s attention is caught, so when he stands up, he gets wolf whistles from across the room. 

 

“Atta boy, Eddy,” Schenner whoops when Joel spins. “Work what you got!” Joel winks at him and he pretends to swoon into Schwartzy, who catches him without stopping eating.

 

Joel wanders over, ruffling Fabbs’ hair and blowing a kiss to Schenner. Someone slaps his ass, and when he turns he gets identical innocent looks from Steener and Vladdy, so that’s a tossup.

 

He drapes himself over Jordan where he’s shoved himself in the corner, airpods in and eating mechanically, zoned in on the plate. He jumps a little when Joel makes contact but takes it in good humor anyway.

 

“Nice abs,” Jordan says, glancing behind himself at Joel. Joel preens.

 

“Gonna fucking wreck Dallas tonight,” he says. 

 

“Fuck yeah,” Jordan says, then elbows Joel away.

 

5) 

 

Jordan’s developed this reputation as this emotionless, endlessly and perhaps overconfident, super focused, zen  guy. It’s not untrue;  _ hockey  _ Jordan is all of those things, and hockey Jordan is always a little bit present. 

 

Joel’s known Jordan a long time now, though, has seen Hockey Jordan evolve from  _ normal Jordan with crazy eyes and pads _ to the current… whatever the fuck it is that Jordan is doing. This deep into the season, Hockey Jordan is more than a little bit present and even Joel has his moments where he forgets that Jordan is still, well, Jordan.

 

Which means that he’s a complete and total weirdo with the social skills of a cat on Adderall and a sense of humor that makes zero sense 95% of the time.

 

Case in point:

 

The bus is stuck in morning traffic in San Jose as they drive from the hotel to the arena for practice before game 5. Joel is sitting next to Fabbs, watching him watch Netflix. Jordan is sitting behind them. The bus is pretty much silent.

 

All of the sudden Jordan makes this horrible noise and then falls completely silent. Joel whips around, along with most of the team, to stare at him. Jordan is hunched over, phone in one hand and face hidden in the other, shuddering convulsively. Joel catches Jake’s eye where he’s sitting across the aisle from Jordan and they share an alarmed look.

 

Sammy, who is behind Jordan with Dunner, takes one for the team and pokes him. “Dude, are you good?” he asks. “Are you having like, a seizure or something?”

 

Jordan shakes his head and rips his headphones out, thrusting them and his phone at Joel without looking up. Petro, making his way over, points and mouths  _ do it _ with all of the captainly sway he seems to possess. Joel scrambles to obey.

 

The video, when he hits replay, is called GRITTY. It’s a minute long. Joel watches it, not really comprehending, and then watches again, and is objectively horrified. It’s when the horror hits that he realizes Jordan is laughing, hysterically, head between his knees, completely silent, bright red.

 

“What the fuck, JB?” Joel asks. “Dude, seriously. How?” Petro is knelt next to the empty seat next to Jordan. Dunner and Sammy, who have both been exposed to Jordan enough to know what’s going on, are sitting back down. 

 

Jordan finally looks up, bright red and crying a little. He’s grinning wide enough to show all of his teeth. He’s definitely scared the shit out of Petro, who looks so lost that Joel takes pity on him and hands him the phone. Petro watches, stone faced, while Jordan fucking collapses into giggling like a fucking schoolgirl. If a schoolgirl was like, demented and really good behind the net. Joel is grinning now too.

 

“Why would you do that to me,” Petro says blankly. “What the fuck. Once a year is too much with that thing.”

 

“Fuckin’ autoplay,” Jordan chokes out. Joel literally can’t look at him anymore without cracking, so he takes of his hoodie and throws it on top of him. It sets Jordan off again.

 

“Why is your solution to everything to get naked?” Petro sighs, handing the phone over to Vladdy, who watches, nodding his head a little. Joel looks down and remembers he forgot to put a shirt on under this morning. Oops.

 

“Is good song,” Vladdy says. He pats Jordan’s head under the sweatshirt. Jordan makes another ridiculous sound and starts coughing.

 

They all seem to collectively decide to leave him to it. Jordan doesn’t seem to want to relinquish Joel’s sweatshirt, so he just sits down. Fabbs, who didn’t even get up, arches an eyebrow at Joel’s bare chest but goes back to watching his show.

 

Jordan emerges from under Joel’s sweatshirt pink and a little disheveled, but otherwise composed. He hands the hoodie back to Joel carefully, and is perfectly stone faced when they run into media in the arena.

 

_ Fucking freak _ , Joel thinks fondly.

 

+1)

 

Joel is so, unreasonably drunk. He’s had worse, but he’s never been this drunk for this long of a continuous period of time. 

 

Joel is drunk, but Jordan is wasted. Jordan keeps touching Joel’s abs,  _ thanks crop top _ , and generally being all up in Joel’s business. They aren’t in public, for once, and luckily too, because Jordan stole a pair of Joel’s tiny running shorts and seems to be having trouble keeping his shirt on. He’s wearing douchey sunglasses when it’s dark and they’re inside.

 

“I fucking love you!” Jordan shouts, on his toes to yell in Joel’s ear. They’re in Schenner’s place. It had been a sort of family party, but the family parts all left a long time ago. As a result, it’s gotten very loud. 

 

“I fucking love you too!” Joel yells back. Jordan’s hands go up his shirt again and rest over his pecs, then he pulls him by the shirt outside and straight into the pool. Joel splutters and flicks water out of his eyes. Jordan gets his arms around Joel’s neck.

 

“Hey,” Jordan whispers. “Hey, Eddy.”

 

“Yeah?” Joel says, breathless.

 

“We won the Stanley Cup,” Jordan says in his ear. “I want my lapdance.”

 

“Wh—“ Joel starts, stupefied by the image. He blinks and remembers. “Oh,” he says. Jordan smiles languidly and bites Joel’s neck. “Okay.”

 

“I want it on film this time,” Jordan says dangerously. Joel’s feeling kind of floaty in a happy and pool-related way.

 

“Yeah,” Joel says, knowing it’ll end up on twitter somehow, tilting his head to catch Jordan’s mouth. “Whatever you want.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> hahahahahahaha what has happened to my life
> 
> you already know what this about to be:
> 
> https://youtu.be/xkN5fovJ7Fc


End file.
